


Song and Dance

by Dizzojay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Humor, Men of Letters Bunker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 03:30:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13204941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dizzojay/pseuds/Dizzojay
Summary: Written for Crowley's Christmas Fic Exchange on Livejournal. The original prompt was: Someone accidentally puts on/gets into in a pair of enchanted red tap shoes and can't stop dancing...and later singing. So he/she is then forced to sing everything he wants to say.





	Song and Dance

They were red and they were sparkly, and for some bizarre reason, Dean had an overwhelming urge to wear them.

Dean didn't do sparkles, like ever. Well, except for that time with Davina the stripper – who unfortunately turned out to be Derek the stripper - and like Dean was ever going to relive that particular misjudgement. But yes, digression aside, Dean didn't do sparkles at all.

But they were so red and sparkly and nice.

Of all the things Dean could find lurking in the bunker's vaults, the last thing he would have imagined would be a pair of red, sparkly tap dancing shoes in amongst all the ancient weapons and scrolls and other musty relics. He'd only gone in there looking for Christmas decorations.

But there they were, all red and sparkly and just begging to be worn.

And suddenly without him even realising he'd done it, they were on his feet. Dean didn't understand how those dainty shoes could fit him, but somehow, it didn't matter. There they were, encasing his great big size 11's in rather lovely red sparkliness.

He tapped his left foot, just to hear that clicky-clacky tap shoe sound echo against the vault's flagstone floor, then he tapped his right foot. He even attempted a little jump.

A big grin slowly crossed his face.

Furtively glancing over his shoulder to make sure Sam or Castiel weren't standing behind him, he took a deep breath and launched into a manic arm-flailing, leg-kicking tap routine that was totally devoid of any discernible rhythm; less in the mould of Fred Astaire, far more in the mould of a frog in a blender.

He eventually stopped and slumped, exhausted, against the wall, but he was slightly concerned to find his feet were still merrily tip-tapping away, seemingly without his permission.

He tried to pull the shoes off, but they clung to his feet with a vice-like grip. Toppling over sideways, he rolled onto his back, and in the manner of an upturned beetle having a seizure, he writhed, wriggled, grunted and gasped as he tugged and flailed, angrily trying to dislodge the offending shoes, and dismally failing.

Eventually, he flopped onto the floor, boneless and panting. And the damn shoes, apparently unconcerned, were still engaged in their own little totally independent party to which it appeared only Dean's feet were invited.

After taking a moment – or maybe more than a moment – to recover, Dean clambered to his feet and stumbledanced his way out of the vault, Tippity-tapping his way down the corridor, he headed toward the main hall where Sam was sitting at the table researching the brothers' current hunt.

Clinging to the wall, Dean's upper body wasn't keeping up with the forward momentum of his cavorting legs; he looked like someone whose limbs had forgotten the value of teamwork as he lurched awkwardly along the hall.

"SAM," he yelled. Except that it didn't come out as a yell, it came out as an operatic and vaguely tuneless baritone.

He clamped his hand over his mouth in horror as his feet continued to caper relentlessly beneath him.

"SAAAAAAM …" he warbled, "these damned shoes are cursed … it couldn't be worse…"

Looking up from his musings, Sam's eyes bugged as he clocked his brother, sweaty and sapped of all energy with weak-kneed legs prancing on the spot. He was clinging onto the doorframe as if he was afraid his shoes would take him on a high-kicking tap routine around the bunker.

"Sam, a little help? This really sucks …" Dean crooned breathlessly; "don't sit there like you don't give two …"

"DEAN?"

Sam leapt up out of his chair and strode over to Dean, grabbing him, and in doing so, attempting to force him to be still.

Within Sam's strong arms, Dean still jigged unwillingly, tippy-tapping up and down on the bunker floor and, unfortunately for Sam, on his feet.

"What the hell happened? You got St Vitus' Dance or something?"

"They were in the vault … it's not my fault …" Dean sing-songed sulkily as one of his tapping legs escaped from Sam's iron grip and kicked the younger Winchester in the shin.

"Get them off …" Dean pleaded tunelessly; "I've had enough …"

"So have I," snorted Sam; "your voice could stop a clock."

Sam made a grab for Dean's feet, and ignoring Dean's outraged squawk, he pulled the right one toward him in an iron grip, and tried to worm his fingers down inside the shoe, to pry them off. Hopping frantically on his free foot, Dean's fists pummelled Sam's chest furiously as he squirmed and gyrated. "SAAAAAM" he shrieked, his voice rising into a vaguely hysterical castrato which almost burst Sam's eardrums. "Let it go … LET IT GO … It tickles too much … Oh FUCK, just … NO!"

"Suck it up, Jerk," Sam snorted defiantly, tugging Dean's leg further toward him and thus folding Dean into a position the most ambitious yogi would have been proud to achieve.

He was concentrating so hard on the task at hand, he didn't see Dean's fist when it connected sharply with his jaw.

Both brothers toppled over backwards in opposite directions, and from his vantage point on the floor, Sam could still see Dean's legs flapping akimbo, and engaged in their own private mid-air disco.

Sam groaned, and waggled his jaw cautiously. When he was satisfied that nothing was broken, or too radically relocated, he realised he was actually starting to feel sorry for Dean who was clearly exhausted. He wasn't sure what was worse, seeing Dean so beaten and spent by something so ridiculous, or having to listen to any more of Dean's singing. He needed to get this fixed, and fixed soon, for the benefit of both of them.

Sam decided there and then that he needed to check the Men of Letters' files.

xxxxx

Once Sam had got started rummaging through the files, starting at 'D' for 'dancing shoes', it didn't take him long to find what he was looking for.

So, it appeared the shoes were cursed, responsible for the untimely ends of several unfortunate dancers back sometime in the 19th century. Following an investigation, they were taken by the Men of Letters for research purposes, and ultimately for destruction.

In the process of the research, the curse attached to the shoes, Sam learned, was neutralised, and the shoes were then just stored, rather than destroyed, as an interesting, if relatively harmless magical artefact.

It was a few years later - at a particularly dull Men of Letters' Christmas party - that they were excavated from storage once again, and livened the event up immensely by becoming the main source of entertainment.

Sam groaned. Those dudes really needed to get out more.

xxxxx

What was noticeably absent from Sam's research, however, was a solution.

He looked up from his book to see Dean, red-faced and breathless, tippy-tapping in the corner of the room and looking just about ready to collapse in a heap if it weren't for his rebellious legs keeping him upright.

"Those stupid Men of Letters," Sam mused angrily; "why couldn't they just have a stripper for entertainment like any normal group of guys? Typical of them to …"

Suddenly Sam paused.

"Hey, Dean, I just had a thought," he announced, thinking aloud.

Dean's feet gave an excited little tap-tap and dragged him round in a drunkenly unsteady pirouette.

"Ok bitch … what's your pitch?"

"Well," Sam explained; "in this file, the Men of Letters say the shoes were used for entertainment at their parties…"

"Yeah, that's right … we ain't got all night," Dean grumbled operatically.

Sam looked up, glaring briefly at his traumatised brother who appeared to be in the midst of some kind of Riverdancing hostage situation.

"Well, what happens when the entertainment ends at any event?" Sam prompted.

"No freaking idea," Dean chanted; "the crowd throw beer?"

"No, that's only at you when you do karaoke," Sam replied matter-of-factly. "Normally, the crowd applaud."

Without prompting, Sam burst into spontaneous applause, clapping and whistling his appreciation of Dean's involuntary display of how not to sing and dance.

Within ten seconds of Sam's enthusiastic one-man standing ovation, the shoes suddenly vanished, and Dean was left standing in his socked feet, with only the bunker's wall and his abused legs keeping him upright.

It was his legs that gave out first, and Dean gradually subsided, sliding down the wall and ending up in a crumpled mess on the floor.

Sam was at his side in a moment. Crouching down, he reached down to help Dean up, only to have his hands batted away for his troubles.

"Less groping, more beer," Dean snorted gruffly, leaning heavily into Sam as he clambered to his feet and looking around the room nervously as he spoke.

"Where are those damn shoes now?"

"Not sure," Sam admitted; "I reckon they're back in the vault where you found them."

"Cmon, sit down, I'm going into the vault to burn those goddamn things," Sam murmured reassuringly as he led Dean toward one of the bunker's great chesterfield armchairs.

Dean grudging allowed himself to be guided toward a seat, and lowered himself on shaking legs into the nearest armchair.

"Beer," he groaned as his rump made contact with the cushion and he relaxed into the seat's padded leather.

"In a minute," Sam replied, handing Dean the TV remote. "Make yourself comfortable, I'm gonna go down to the vaults and burn those darn shoes, then we can have a beer when I get back."

Dean nodded, turning his attention toward the TV's blank screen as Sam's footsteps receded into the distance.

xxxxx

It only took a moment for Sam to find the shoes and finish the job that the Men of Letters should have done decades ago. He wiped his ash-stained hands on his jeans then headed back up from the vaults. Hopefully, Sam mused as he detoured to the refrigerator and pulled out a pair of condensation-beaded bottles, Dean would have found some crap on TV involving sport, fast cars and violence or a ton of fart jokes to take his mind off of his recent ordeal.

Heading back into the hall, Sam stopped in his tracks when he saw Dean staring pebble-eyed and gaping at the screen.

The screen which was showing the glitz and sequins of 'Dancing with the Stars' Christmas special.

"Beer!" Dean snapped, turning to stare blankly at Sam; "Beer. Now. LOTS of beer. ALL THE BEER IN THE FREAKING WORLD!"

xxxxx

end


End file.
